Dark Night
by Barbara Barnett
Summary: Missing scene from the end of Merry Little Christmas. Cuddy visits House after Wilson leaves. Spoilers for MLC. HouseCuddy friendship.


He had somehow managed to seat himself upright, leaning against the coffee table when he heard the knock. House was weak from puking, from exhaustion. Pain seemed more a theory than a fact, although he hurt in every place possible. Within and without. He really couldn't call out to the caller to leave him the hell alone. Go away. Come back after Christmas. Maybe he or she would leave of their own volition.

The knocking stopped and House breathed, momentarily hopeful that that he had been left mercifully alone. But then the ancient handle of the front door creaked as it turned and House cursed Wilson for leaving it unlocked.

"House?" A whisper, female. Great. At least it wasn't Wilson. But that meant that either Cuddy or (shit) Cameron had come back. "House!" Cuddy. He closed his eyes, hoping that when he opened them he'd have found her to be nothing more than a drug-induced delusion.

Much to her credit, Cuddy didn't flinch from either the sight of him or the now reeking mess of vomitus surrounding him. "Go away," he managed. Cuddy took him in. She was shocked at his state. Wilson had phoned her two hours earlier, angry, frustrated and disgusted.

"We have to bear some the responsibility, Wilson," she had said to him. "We drove him to it. He must have been…"

"No. We did what he had to do and he threw it back in our faces. Oxy. From a patient. A dead patient. And he thinks he has no problem with drugs."

"We had no right…"

"to do what? To help him? To make him face himself once and for all? We not only had the right. We had the obligation. But I'm through." But it was House who had, in a moment of absolute darkness, almost been through. She half expected to find him dead and thanked God that she would not have to bear the terrible responsibility of having driven him over a cliff to his death.

Cuddy grabbed supplies from the bathroom, kitchen and bedroom before heading back to her patient. She crouched beside him as he watched her silently, warily from the floor. His pupils seemed normal, albeit slightly constricted. "House." His eyes were the only thing that reacted to her voice. "How many did you take?"

House opened his mouth to answer as a new wave of nausea hit. He suppressed it, while gesturing to the empty pill bottle lying on the floor nearby. "He didn't tell you? They were so delicious I took 'em all." He meant the reply to be tinged with bitterness, but he only managed pathetic. Cuddy had known. She just wanted to hear it from him. She didn't know how to ask the next question without making him defensive and causing him to withdraw further. House looked away, understanding full well what she really wanted to know, knowing that if she looked straight on into his eyes, she'd see the truth.

Cuddy started with his face. He had to admit, she was good. The warm, wet towel revived as she washed it across first his forehead and eyes, before wiping the mess from his jaw and mouth. "I should call 911. We need to get your stomach pumped. Get you checked out." House opened his eyes, silently pleading to leave well enough alone.

"Please don't." It was a plead uttered in a whisper barely heard. A 911 call would lead to questions he was not prepared to answer. He knew the primary question would also come from Cuddy. Eventually. But couldn't handle it coming from some ER resident. Or worse. "I upchucked most of it. That nice little white pile by my foot. I'm fine."

"You are not fine. House.." Saved by the ringing of a phone. House was in no condition grab the phone, but the ringing was piercing his head like a stiletto. "Should I pick it up?" House opened one eye. Who the hell would be calling him? Wilson. Fine. Let Cuddy talk to him. He nodded slightly. The movement made him retch, but he had nothing left in his stomach to give back. He lowered himself to the floor, lying on his left side, carefully avoiding the remains of his stomach contents. Cuddy's voice drifted above his head somewhere distant.

"He's right here, Mrs. House. I know he'd be upset that he's worried you so much. Hold on." Cuddy tried to hand House the phone. Panic in his eyes, he silently pleaded with her to not subject him right in that moment, to having to talk. She glared at him, staring at the phone, cutting no slack. Suddenly, House was staring at the receiver now thrust in his hands.

"Yeah, mom. Yeah. I know how I sounded…No. I'm fine. I'm sorry. Mom…I can't…No. Really. There's no need to come…I'm fine. Yes….Fine. I admit I was a little depressed last night. I'm sorry I sounded…No. I'm NOT alone. Dr. Cuddy's here. OK. Say hi for me." The conversation had cost him most of his meager reserve of energy and focus.

Cuddy had listened for clues: his state of mind, then and now; the level of despair she now knew that he suffered. His voice was halting, suffused with sorrow. So, he had called his mother. To what? To say goodbye? To hear the sound of a voice that wouldn't judge him? That would offer him unconditional love? What had he said that sent her into such a panic for his well-being? She noticed the nearly empty bottle of whiskey. So he had taken the pills with (a lot) of alcohol. If he hadn't been suicidal, he'd been awfully close to it. A chill ran though her with the thought of her own complicity in it.

"Take your shirt off." He hadn't the strength to provide a wicked come-back. "It's a mess." Her tone was overly professional, an attempt, poorly executed, to sound neutral when she felt anything but. House eyed her warily, daring her to comment on the conversation to which she had, no doubt, listened intently. He made an attempt at the shirt, successfully unbuttoning only three of the six buttons before giving up, his hands dropping wearily to his lap.

"I need to know if…" She peered into his eyes, looking for truth. House sighed. He knew it was coming: the inevitable question.

"If I meant to do it? Or was it some accident: a simple miscount of the pills, or was I forgetful? Or did I just not care? I don't know. I really, really don't. I know I just needed the pain to stop." He'd said too much, and he knew it. He did not want to be doing this now. He was too vulnerable. Too tired. To liable to say something he really didn't want to share when his defense systems were in disarray.

House shivered, his torso now exposed to Cuddy's ministrations. On another night, he might have been aroused by her touch, now he simply felt the surrender of a man at the end of his emotional rope; beyond caring, beyond hope.

"Can you stand?" House nodded weakly, although he was unsure. He made it to the sofa and Cuddy retrieved a blanket, wrapping him in it. He looked a little better, but not by much. His eyes were blank, barely lit in the dark hollows of his too gaunt face. House sighed deeply.

"You win, Cuddy. I'm ready to take Tritter's deal. You happy? I'm sure Wilson'll be overjoyed." She was stung by the bitterness of his delivery; in agony over the despair she heard in his voice. No one had won. In that moment, House reminded Cuddy of a stallion whose spirit had been broken so that he could be more easily managed. The wildness was gone, but so was the spark. And she was saddened by it.

"You need help through this, House. Rehab will…" He held up a hand, not wanting to hear in words what his own voice had been calling out to him now for hours. Since that dim recognition that comes with hitting the floor of the canyon, knowing that there's no one to rescue you but yourself.

"I wanted it to end last night, Cuddy. I'm so fucking tired of this. I just couldn't fight anymore. The pain, the knowledge that this is it for me. There is no cure for it; no miracle last minute fix. That the only salvation for me is in those pills, my respite. And I'm tired of fighting you and Wilson, having to plead for every bit of understanding, feeling like…" Again he had disclosed too much to her. He stopped, looking away.

"And now?" House looked up at her, his eyes still devastated. She wanted to hold him; knew that it was what he probably needed. She also knew that he wouldn't allow it. Not now, not while he was still bleeding. Cuddy touched his face with her hand and felt him relax into it as his eyes closed. She needed him to know. "I am with you in this," her gesture said.

Cuddy took House's left hand in both of hers, noting the slight tremble. "I'll drive you down to the police station."

"You afraid to leave me alone?" His tone was accusatory, but without its usual bite.

"Yes. I am."

"Wilson wasn't." Cuddy welcomed the tang of sarcasm. It was a sign of life left in him.

"I'm not Wilson." She squeezed his hand. "Let's get you presentable."

end


End file.
